It is suicide by little increments.
Tiny, tiny increments.
Just spending all of life
and pissing it all into the wind.
To have and to hold,
having had and having held,
like sand,
it fell all through my finger tips.
And all that is left are the bones,
ragged and white.
The wind wips and curls
around each skeletal fibre.
It passes through,
as I passed though once,
when I had no care or thought.
I became the unhappy wench I despise.
An ironic ending.
Fitting and poetic.
People only wanted
and I gave my heart.
Or so I thought.
But maybe not,
because when you give your heart
you are happy.
And I am not.
